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[HE  1  [BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


California  Idylh 


and 


Other  Poems 


B  Y 

ELLA  MAY  SEXTON 

AUTHOR  OF 

Stories  of  California,  Mission  Poems 
and  What  the  Children  Say. 

SAN  FRANCISCO 
1920 


CALIFORNIA  AT  CHRISTMAS 

" December"  calls  the  Year — but  rose  and 

bee 

And  meadow-lark  with  trills  of  sweetest 
tune 

Say  " No,  'tis  June!" 

Stern  black  and  white  the  calendar's  decree, 
Yet  we  who  read,  bewildered,  turn  to  see 
Wide  intervales  of  tender  green,  and  thrill 
To  fire  of  southern  sun  caressing  still 

December's  noon. 

What  dawns  late-flushed  with  mingled  gold 

and  rose, 
That  slowly  brighten,  till  each  perfect  day 

Smiles  hours  away 
Under  a  cloudless  turquoise  sky!   Then 

shows 

The  pearly  bubble  of  the  moon,  that  grows 
To  luminous  whiteness  as  the  low  sun 

wanes ; 
While,  as  the  planets  burn,  December 

feigns 
June's  mellow  ray. 

Unchanged  the  spires  of  cypress,  and  the 
sweep 

Of  crowding  hosts  of  gum-trees  up  the  hill, 
Where  summer  still 

With  gold  of  vagrant  poppies  flecks  the 
steep ; 

Yet  winter  violets  bloom  with  fragrance 
deep. 

Perplexed,  entranced,  we  are  but  sure  this 
seems 

The  "Land  of  afternoon" — and   lotus- 
dreams 
Our  senses  thrilU 

{*)*   n  AI  <r*  <« 


WITH  CHRISTMAS  VIOLETS  TO  HER 

From  sunny  gardens  where  no  blight 
Of  winter  mars  their  perfect  bloom, 
These  purple  violets  waft  delight 
Of  sweet  perfume. 

Across  wide,  desolate  wastes  of  snow, 
With  breath  of  summer  swiftly  fare, 

Where  stern  December  skies  brood  low 
On  gardens  bare. 

Tell  her  of  sapphire  sky  and  sea, 
Of  warm,  entrancing  sunshine  here, 

Of  green  fields  fair  as  Arcady, 
Where  larks  sing  clear. 

Yet,  Sweet,  'twere  Arcady,  though  snows 
Lay  deep  along  each  frosty  way, 

If  but  your  cheek  could  lean  its  rose 
To  mine  today! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CONTRAST — EAST  AND  WEST 

Bells  of  Christmas,  a  carillon  sending 
Of  silver  chimes  through  the  sunny  day, 

Cloudless  azure  of  June  sky  bending 
Over  the  sapphire  bay — 

Bitter  the  Christmas  there,  and  snowing, 

Keen  the  rough  winds  blowing! 

Sunshine  flooding  the  purple  distance 
Of  farther  mountain,  and  hillsides  near ; 

Violets  breathing  with  sweet  insistence, 
"Winter  is  banished  here!" 

Frozen  and  bleak  the  garden-spaces 

Lift  their  desolate  faces. 

Larks  in  our  grassy  meadows  trilling, 
Love  and  hope  in  their  raptures  told ; 

Clusters  of  lavish  poppies  spilling 
Bright,  brimming  cups  of  gold — 

Silent  the  woodlands  gray,  where  only 

Bare  -fields  shiver,  lonely. 

Lightly  fall  in  our  golden  weather 
Strokes  of  time  for  the  flying  hours ; 

Fair  Earth  smiles  with  the  Year,  together 
Marking  our  paths  with  flowers — 

Long  the  winter's  reign,  and  weary, 

Cold  December  dreary! 


WILD  COLUMBINES 

Gay,  elfin  dancers  poised  for  flight 

Where  woodland  shadows  shimmer, 
Or  fluttering  up  yon  windy  height 

Your  scarlet  kirtles  glimmer 
In  rout  fantastic,  led,  perchance, 

By  Pan,  with  airy  fluting; 
Fauns,  too,  with  shy,  elusive  glance 

Your  straggling  ranks  saluting. 

A  host  of  sprites  in  forest-green 
With  wandering  winds  coquetting, 

While  golden-tasseled  bonnets  lean 
Tip-tilted  by  their  fretting. 

Each  merry  nod,  and  beckoning  fling 

The  wild  bees  answer,  knowing 

Your  horns  of  honey  freely  swing, 
Nor  wait  reluctant  going. 

For  you  the  children,  columbine, 

Reach  eager  hands  with  laughter, 
Your  slender  sprays,  close-clasped,  to  pine 

In  drooping  beauty  after; 
But  all  ungathered,  smiling  near, 

Or  from  the  hillside  calling, 
Your  countless  sisters  bend,  to  hear 

The  children's  footsteps  falling. 

Of  all  the  laughing  flowers,  that  hold 

Spring's  carnival,  a-Maying, 
You  elves  in  harlequin  red  and  gold 

Are  gayest,  farthest  straying; 
To  redwoods,  fields  or  storm-scarred  verge 

Of  mountain  cliffs  you're  faring, 
And,  wind-blown,  toss  near  ocean's  surge 

Your  scarlet  trumpets  flaring. 


"WHAT  DREAMS  MAY  COME" 

Haunting  me  ever,  there  comes  and  goes 
A  line  from  an  old  song's  tender  close, 
Its  burden  the  sweetest — the  saddest,  too, 
For   the   altered   lives   it  has   echoed 

through — 
"Love,  had  you  loved  me;"  the  words  are 

few 
But  through  them  an  infinite  passion  flows. 

"Love,  had  you  loved  me;"  perhaps  the 

key 

To  many  a  grief  this  thought  may  be; 
To  a  sorrow  that  stirs  at  the  magic  strain 
And  steps  from  its  prison,  barred  in  vain, 
To  crush  with  the  old,  relentless  pain 
The  heart  that  has  guarded  it  faithfully. 

Ah,  fondest  and  truest,  whose  brown  eyes 

shine 

With  the  tenderest  lovelight,  I  am  thine 
Forever,  thou  heart  of  my  heart — and  yet 
The  breath  of  an  April  violet 
Wakens  a  longing,  a  deep  regret 
For  eyes  as  blue,  that  were  never  mine ! 

"Love,  had  you  loved  me,"  what  life  would 

be 

Attuned  to  that  passionate  melody! 
Sad  hearts  unblest,  that  must  still  repine 
For  the  draught  untasted  of  Love's  rich 

wine, 

Bitter  the  memories  that  haunt  this  line 
Of  "Love,  had  you  loved  me,"  so  mourn 
fully. 


To  A  DECEMBER  VIOLET 

Dear  violet,  a  passing  guest 

With  Lenten  gown  of  purple  dressed 

In  colder  clime, 

Sweet  saint,  uplifting  tender  eyes 
To  April's  pale  and  changing  skies— 

As  brief  your  prime ! 

But  constant  to  our  sunshine,  here 
We  find  you,  love  you  through  the  year, 

As  friend,  nay,  more ; 
Fast  drive  the  wind-swept  rains,  and,  too, 
The  frost  smites  frailer  bloom,  while  you 

Smile  as  before. 

No  passionate  rose  are  you,  sweetheart, 
With  red  lips  curved  to  all,  apart 

In  shyest  grace 

You  nestle — yet  the  garden's  pride 
Of  bloom  and  beauty  wanes  beside 

Your  dainty  face. 

In  sheltering  leaves  you  hide,  demure, 
From  careless  glance  or  touch  secure, 

But  lovers  true 

Led  by  your  perfume  faintly  sweet— 
A  breath  of  heaven,  perchance — we  greet 

Your  heavenly  blue. 

Ah,  little  love,  your  calm  content 
Shames  restless  souls  with  striving  spent. 

Would  we  might  find 
Nepenthe  in  the  sunshine ;  cease 
To  war  with  Fate,  and  smile  in  peace, 

To  life  resigned! 


A  CITY  OUTLOOK 

From  eyrie  lifted  high  o'er  clamorous 

ways — 

And  so  remote  the  hurrying  throng  below, 
Mere  puppets  in   some   strange,   fantastic 

show, 
Play  on  their  silent  parts — the  far,  clear 

gaze, 
Caught  here  by  spires  that  pierce  a  crowded 

maze 
Of  roofs  and  lofty  towers,  seeks  there  the 

glow 
Of   gilded   domes   through   veiling   vapors 

low. 

Flung  on  the  west  winds,  stream  along  the 

haze 
Long  wavering  plumes,  snow  white,  or 

dusky   gray, 

Or  dark  as  night;  each  smoky  pennant  flies 
And  marks  where,  close  imprisoned,  breaths 

and  sighs 

The  giant  Toil,  still  urging,  day  by  day, 
Unwilling  slaves.     Beyond,  brown  hills 

arise 
To  meet  the   bending  arch  of  deep   blue 

skies. 


TO-DAY 

To-day  is  ours,  this  moment  all  we  know, 
So  quaff  its  cup  of  joy,  kind  fates  bestow; 
"To  all  we  love,"  the  toast,  and  vow  with  me 
No  draught  more  precious  flows  in  Arcady ! 


A  MISSION  LEGEND 

Long  ago,  when  the  good  Franciscans 

Founded  the  Missions  quaint, 
Named  in  liquid  and  sweet  Castilian, 

Each  honored  a  patron  saint. 
There  were  Carlos  and  San  Fernando, 

Fair  Barbara,  San  Jose, 
Miguel  and  most-loved  Carmelo, 

Juan  and  San  Luis-Rey. 

Adobes,  white  walled,  set  in  billows 

Of  emerald  vines  and  wheat, 
Nearly  a  score  of  these  Missions  o'er 

Long  coast  leagues  rose  complete. 
Still  Father  Serra  murmured, 

For  to  Francis   (name  revered 
By  these  brethren  gray)  had  never  a 
Church 

In  this  new  world  yet  been  reared. 

"But,"  spake  one,  "if  our  San  Francisco 

To  some  goodly  port  will  guide, 
We  will  rear  a  stately  Mission  there 

For  that  sainted  founder's  pride." 
Long  they  searched,   till  this  splendid 
harbor 

Before  their  vision  lay; 
"We  were  led  by  the  Saint!"  they  shouted 
then, 

'Tis  San  Francisco's  bay!" 

There  sparkled  the  quiet  waters, 

Unruffled  by  keel  or  prow, 
Never  a  sail  on  the  shining  blue 

Where  flutter  the  world's  flags  now. 


A  Mission  Legend 

Here  a  Mission  new  they  blessed, 
Nor  dreamed  that  a  slumbering  city  lay 
On  the  sand  dunes'  shifting  crest. 

And  the  Church  of  Francis  flourished. 

The  Indian  converts  though 
When  the  mellow  Angelus  bells  rang  clear 

Their  Aves  whispered  low, 
To  the  tender  Mother  of  Sorrows 

Dolores,  finding  there 
At  the  Lady's  shrine  a  blessed  peace 

For  those  who  burdens  bear. 

And  pointing  high  on  the  hillsides 

(That  round  the  Mission  walled) 
A  mighty  figure  couching  there 

The  Sleeping  Lady  called ; 
Broidered  with  golden  poppies 

Her  mantle's  brown  folds  flow 
From  the  Twin  Peaks  of  her  bosom  bare 

To  the  church  at  her  feet  below. 

In  her  ears  the  ocean  thundered 

Nor  broke  the  magic  spell; 
" Dolores,"  whispered  the  Indians, 

"Our  Lady  sleeps — and  well." 
But  at  night  she  steps  from  her  drapery 

Of  fleecy  fog  (they  told) 
To  watch  o'er  the  slumbering  Mission 

Till  the  roses  of  dawn  unfold. 

So  ever  to  Madre  Dolores 

The  trusting  peons  prayed; 
Francis  the  Good  for   daylight, 

But  at  night  and  unafraid, 
Were  her  sleeping  suppliants  sheltered 

By  the  tender  Mother  of  Pain. 


OUR  CHRISTMAS  BERRIES 

High  on  the  leaning  hillsides  climbing 

Yon  purple  wall  of  the  mountain-flanks, 
Out  of  the  chaparral's  thickest  tangle 

That  rims  the  rushing  torrent's  banks, 
With  a  brilliant  glimmer  of  vivid  scarlet 

Our  Christmas  berries  smile,  and  shine 
From  a  maze  of  oak  and  glossy  laurel, 

Manzanita  and  wind-swept  pine. 

Up  the  wild,  rough  trails  in  the  canyons, 

Crushing  the  ferns,  and  wet,  sweet  bay, 
While  the  pungent  odor  of  yerba-buena 

Follows  our  breathless,  headlong  way; 
Clambering  high  for  more  perfect  clusters, 

Set  red-ripe  in  their  golden-green — 
O,  the  joy  of  it,  and  far  gazing 

From  heights  won  bravely,  the  seaward 
scene ! 

Perchance  for  robin  as  red,  and  blue- jay, 

This  feast  of  Nature 's  is  spread  alone, 
But  lavish,  as  all  this  fair  land's  treasures, 

Free  as  the  sunshine  the  poorest  own, 
So  to  the  dwellers  where,  thronging  closely, 

Glimpses  of  woodland  beauty  are  rare, 
Joy  and  color  these  Christmas  berries 

Bring  to  the  dullness  of  ceaseless  care. 

What  care  we  for  the  alien  holly, 
Stiff  and  stately  with  ancient  pride 

Of  Merrie  England  ?    We  crown  our  revels 
With  sun-kissed  garlands,  and  wreath 
beside 

Branches  of  redwood  with  fragrance  sylvan, 
Grandest  of  mansions,  or  cot  within ; 

Lending  the  smile  of  Mother  Nature 


RONDEAU 

Those  other  days!    Where  is  the  heart 
Keeps  not  some  jewels,  shrined  apart, 
Of  precious  intervals  that  linger 
Untouched  by  Time's  relentless  finger? 
Pair  days  when  Love  had  fullest  part 
Enchanting  earth  with  magic  art; 
Hope's  rainbows,  too,  their  charms  impart 

Those  other  days. 

Days  memory  guards  with  jealous  art 
Lest  each  remembrance  sweet  depart, 
And  bids  their  rosy  glamour  linger 
Untouched  by  Time's  relentless  finger, 
Dear  other  days! 

II 

RONDEAU 

Again  the   spring!     Strange  miracle   and 

sweet, 
Renewed  each  slow-paced  year  as  April's 

feet 
We  follow  while  she  beckons,  luring, 

wiling 
To  grassy  fields  where  nod  gay  poppies, 

smiling 

Yet  though  the  sun's  caresses  warm  entreat, 
With  deep  and  subtle  sadness,  too,  replete 
Our  hearts,  and  wistfully  each  year  we  greet 
Fair  earth  to  sea  and  shore  and  hill 
beguiling 

Again  the  Spring. 

For  far  Life's  goal;  the  spring's  fond  hopes 

with  fleet 

Elusive  step  and  mocking  laugh  retreat. 
So  long  the  way,  so  weary  we  of  smiling, 
And  empty  hearts  with  empty  words 

beguiling ; 
Lashed  on  bv  Fate.  desDairins".  we  rer>eat. 


DUSK  AT  POINT  BONITA 

Around  Bonita's  cliffs  the  wild  Pacific 
Erets  like  a  fettered  giant  at  his  chain; 

In  helpless  fury  roar  the  baffled  surges 
Beating  against  the  cruel  rocks  in  vain. 

No  soft,  low  lap  of  slumbrous  waters 

ebbing, 

No  sunny  stretch  of  level  beach  is  here; 
The  sheer  crag  lashed  by  angry  spray 

uprises 

From  eddies  dark,  the  boom  of  breakers 
near. 

Afar,  above  the  horizon's  rim,  there  trem 
bles 

Against  the  tender  blue  one  mellow  star; 
The  long  white  films  of  fog  are  landward 

drifting, 
A  vessel  tossing  on  the  heaving  bar. 

Lonely   the   light-house    rears   its   slender 

column 
Crowned  with  the  beacon  star  of  vivid 

flame 
That  leaped  to  life  when,  startling  in  the 

silence 
The  sunset  gun  for  dying  daylight  came. 

Around    Bonita's    cliffs   the   weird    dusk 

deepens, 
Like  ghostly  sails,  the  fog  athwart  the 

sky; 
The  west  wind  lulled,  the  waves  are  fainter 

calling, 
The  lustrous  radiance  of  the  light  streams 

by. 


Dusk  at  Point  Bomta 

Through  the  gray  gloom  white  wings  are 

swiftly  flashing, 
As  sea-gulls  scream  above  the  breakers' 

moans ; 
They  seek  their  nests  where  fade  into  the 

twilight 
The  misty  outlines  of  the  Farallones. 


THE  WILLOW  TREE 

Forever  at  my  casement's  square 
A  drooping  willow  sways  and  moans, 
The  faintest  breath  of  wandering  wind 
That  scarcely  stirs  the  slumbering  air, 
Wakes  from  the  willow  answering  tones. 

All  day  the  golden  summer  long 
From  its  deep  bower  of  tender  green 
My  willow  breathes  an  idyll  sweet, 
A  dreamy,  murmuring  woodland  song 
Like  dryads  trill  at  sports  unseen. 

But  now  when  from  the  moaning  sea 
The  winds  rush  landward  and  the  rain 
Driven  by  the  fierce  gale,  wildly  beats, 
Lashed  by  the  storm  the  groaning  tree 
Writhes  like  a  giant  racked  with  pain. 

A  secret  that  I  had  not  guessed 

So  closely  folded  was  it  kept, 

The  willow  guards  no  more.     Poor  birds, 

The  leaves  that  hid  thy  sheltered  nest 

December's  hand  has  widely  swept. 

Still  sobs  the  wind  and  drips  away 
The  weary  rain.     I  dimly  see 
The  tossing  willow,  and  its  boughs 
Through  deepening  gloom  of  waning  day 
Like  ghostly  fingers  beckon  me. 


A  CHKISTMAS  ROSE  AT  MONTEREY 

Rose,  at  the  Monterey  Mission  unfolding, 
Rose  the  good  Padres  once  cherishing, 

trained 
On  these  adobe  walls  gnarled  stems 

upholding 
Chalices  perfumed,  and  sunset-pink 

stained, 

Rosa  Castilian,  sweet  rose  of  the  Mission, 
Secrets,  ah,  surely,  your  gold  hearts 

retained 
As  the  long  century  drowsily  waned. 

Rose,  did  they  whisper  those  old  days,  but 

aves, 

While  gay  boleros  soft  tinkled  without 
Corridors  white  in  the  moonlight,  and  path 
ways 
Darkened  where  twin  shadows  flitted 

about? 

Rosa  Castilian,  sweet  rose  of  the  Mission, 
Never  a  kiss  set  your  pink  lips  to  pout, 
Never  a  languorous  lover  to  flout? 

Rose,  in  some  odorous  twilight  fast-flying, 

(Waiting  the  Angelus  prayer  to  repeat) 
Stooped  not  a  fond  cavalier,  softly  sighing 

Into  your  warm  ear  a  confidence  sweet  ? 
Rosa  Castilian,  sweet  rose  of  the  Mission, 

Once  you  leaned,  surely,  some  ardent 
heart's  beat 

Quickened  by  ancient  romances,  to  greet  ? 


A  Christmas  Rose  at  Monterey 

Rose  on  these  crumbling  walls  tenderly 

cherished 
Years  to  you  naught  but  the  sunshine  and 

rain, 
Dust  are  the  Padres,  their  sepulchres 

perished ; 

Moldering  missal  and  vestments  remain, 
Rosa  Castilian,  sweet  rose  of  the  Mission, 
Long-vanished  glories  their  voiceless 

refrain, 
Passing  of  power  Franciscan,  of  Spain. 

Rose  with  this  austral  sun's  golden  wine 

filling 
Lavish  cups,  brimming  and  perfumed 

to-day, 
No  breath  of  winter,  nor  icy  blast  chilling 

Bloom  of  December  as  constant  as  May, 
Rosa  Castilian,  sweet  rose  of  the  Mission, 
Ah,  but  the  magical  tales  you  might  say, 
Pink  lips  from  golden  hearts  curving 
away! 

IT  WAS  BOHEMIA! 

Gray  August  days,  when  ceaselessly 

Strong  tradewinds  scourge  the  moaning  sea 
And  sullen  shore.    Far  inland  drift 
White  wraiths  of  fog  that  shadowy,  swift, 

Athwart  blurred  hills  and  sand-dunes  flee 

Or,  clinging,  veil  each  dripping  tree. 

The  sunless  sky  broods  silently; 
Of  golden  light  no  gleam,  no  rift 

Gray  August  days. 

Sad  sea-girt  coast,  how  wistfully 

The  sapphire  skies  of  Arcady 

Where  redwoods  stately  columns  lift, 
And  radiant  floods  of  sunshine  sift, 

Recur  in  vivid  life  to  me 

Gray  August  days! 


LAVENDEK,  SWEET 

At  a  crowded  corner  the  " lavender-man" 

To  passers-by  unheeding 
Offers  the  sweet,  old-fashioned  herb 

With  patient,  silent  pleading. 
The  gay  crowd  surges  on  and  on 

(A  pageant  ever  shifting) 
But  vaguely  noting,  on  Self  intent, 

This  pungent  fragrance  drifting. 

For  me  a  grief  and  a  memory  dear 

This  perfume  wakens,  bringing 
Back  from  the  past  a  garden  quaint 

With  the  purple  spikes  up-springing 
Of  lavender  sweet  in  the  August  days, 

And  two  who  loitered  idly 
Nor  dreamed  that  a  mocking  Fate  had  set 

Their  paths  diverging  widely. 

Two  who  lingered  to  pluck  the  stalks 

Of  lavender  sweet,  unguessing 
The  charm  of  that  golden  summer  day 

Was  one  of  Love's  possessing; 
That  their  blossoming  time  of  youth  and 
life 

Was  at  Love's  touch  unfolding 
Till  only  two,  and  the  lavender  flowers 

The  happy  world  seemed  holding. 

Two — and  a  cloud — then  an  angry  word — 

A  rift  that  widened  slowly 
As  the  lavender,  gray  and  faded,  died 

Two  parted,  sundered  wholly ; 
Yet  still  as  the  lavender's  fragrance  drifts 

That  crowded  corner  nearing, 
Half-sweet,  half-bitter  the  old  grief  wakes 

That  " might  have  been"  endearing. 


AN  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

(And  Owed  a  Long  Time) 

Thou  glorious  western  breeze ! 
(But  wait,  until  I  turn  my  back  to  get 

One  breath,  at  least,  with  ease.) 
Here,  from  far  leagues  of  heaving  blue,  and 

wet 

With  salt  spume  of  the  sea, 
(Uncurled  my  bangs  must  be ! 
A  perfect  fright  I  look,)  by  Aeolus  sped 
From  his  vast  Cave  of  Winds  (each  hairpin 

fled). 

Thy  sigh  with  ozone  fraught 
(Likewise  with  sand)   new  life  and  fresh 

hast  brought 

To  toilers  in  this  city  maelstrom  foul, 
(A  sigh !  Methinks  a  raging,  roaring  howl !) 
And  careworn  eyes  uplift 
As  low  thy  pinions  drift 
With  gray  fog  streaming  from  those  mighty 

wings. 

(And  signs — and  cobblestones — and  hats — 
and  things.) 

Strong  wind,  untrammeled,  free, 
(Though  not  of   dust  both  weeping  eyes 

agree.) 
From  warm  seas  of  the  Orient  swiftly  flown 

(Chilled  to  the  bone, 
I  doubt  that  legend) .    Dost  thou,  trade  wind, 

bear 

What  messages,  what  stores 
From  rich  and  sunkissed  shores 
In  white  flotillas  proudly  homeward — (there, 
My  hat's  a  wreck!)  Gay  zephyr  unconfmed, 
(Though  would  you  were !)  in  sportive  mood 

inclined — 

(Worlds  for  a  sheltered  nook,  there  to  re 
treat 

And  praise  some  more  this  gale,  my  ode 
complete!) 


Two  PICTURES 

THERE 

Bitter  the  keen  winds  blowing  under  sullen 

skies  and  low, 
Where  the  dying  sun,  his  brief  task  done, 

sinks  blood-red  over  the  snow, 
Snow  with  its  merciless  beauty,  snow  with 

its  deadly  hold 
On  the  pulses  warm  of  each  shuddering  form 

that  dares  the  cruel  cold. 

God  pity  the  shelterless  vagrant,  whose  wan 
dering  steps  and  slow 
Falter  and  fail  in  the  icy  gale,  while  darkens 

the  waste  below — 
O,  the  scourging  lash  of  the  blizzard,  the 

blinding,  stinging  sleet, 
The  gaunt  white  wolves  of  Hunger  and  Cold 
that  follow  grim  and  fleet! 

HERE; 
New  grass  in  all  the  sunny  spaces; 

New  robes  for  earth's  brown  breast 
The  rains  weave  fast,  in  vacant  places 
By  southern  sun  caressed. 

New  hopes  through  hearts  despairing, 
thrilling, 

New  life  a  glad  world  knows, 
With  larks  in  greenest  meadows  trilling 

Where  gold  of  poppies  glows. 

/•".'"  */ 

Red  are  the  garden-roses  budding; 

Through  casements  wide,  the  room 
Warm  winds  with  violet  odors  flooding, 

Knows  Spring's  dear,  faint  perfume. 


CHRISTMAS  SONG  FOR  CALIFORNIA 

No  winter's  blight  our  Christinas  knows, 
No  bitter  blasts,  nor  sparkling  snows, 
The  old  year  wanes,  the  old  year  goes 

While  halcyon  hours 
Drift  on  enchanted  pinions  fleet 
In  sunny  gardens,  where  with  sweet 
And  haunting  perfume  violets  greet 

Late  summer's  flowers. 

Scarce  dream  we  Christmas  almost  near 

So  blue  December  skies  appear, 

So  green  the  beckoning  fields,  so  clear 

Rise  hills  remote. 

The  golden  present  thralls,  no  past 
Nor  morrow's  cares  dark  shadows  cast, 
Just  on  Time's  dial,  flying  fast, 

Bright  hours  we  note. 

Ring  out,  glad  Christmas  bells,  nor  cease 
Prom  snows  to  palms  by  tropic  seas,  • 
Your  tidings  of  good-will  and  peace 

Exultant  sound; 

Ring  out,  blest  tale  of  Love  Divine, 
Where  Christmas  wreaths  of  northern  pine, 
Our  berries  red,  or  holly  twine 

The  world  around. 


A  CALIFORNIA  THANKSGIVING 

Is  this  Thanksgiving?    November, 

With  the  tender  green  of  the  hills 
Splashed  with  deep  gold  of  poppies 

While  sweet  the  meadow-lark  trills? 
Thanksgiving — and  violets  blooming  ? 

O,  by  some  wizard's  device 
The  year  has  skipped  those  pages 

Of  the  almanac's  "snow  and  ice"! 

November?    And  sunshine  pouring 

From  a  cloudless  turquoise  sky 
While  steeped  in  a  trance  of  languor 

Warm,  golden  hours  drift  by? 
Gardens  ablaze  with  color, 

And  fragrant  as  vanished  June 
Masking  in  robes  of  summer ; 

Can  winter  come — and  soon? 

Where  are  those  dark,  cold  mornings 

With  rime  of  hoar-frost  white, 
The  bare  and  leafless  branches 

That  moaned  in  the  gales  of  night? 
Those  gray  days  slowly  dying 

In  an  angry  flame  of  red, 
While  keen  the  flash  of  starlight 

In  the  steely  blue  o  'erhead  ? 

That  is  November !    Thanksgiving 

Brings  snow  to  drift  and  hide 
Brown  hills,  while  merry  sleigh-bells 

Bring  rovers  home  to  bide. 
This  in  the  land  of  sunshine 

Seems  Indian  summer's  prime, 
With  the  frost's  destroying  fingers 

Stayed  by  a  smiling  Time. 


A  PLIGHT  WITH  PUCK 

"I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth  in 
forty  minutes." 

Midsummer  Night 's  Dream. 

When  half  this  happy  world  in  Sleep's 

embrace 

Close-folded  lies,  and  I,  denied,  without 
That  blissful  pale,  cast  restless  arms 

about, 
One  boon  remains,  though  Sleep  avert  her 

face, 
For  tricksy  Puck  I  call  from  realms  of 

space ; 
My  spirit,  and  that  wanderer  gay,  seek 

out 

Far  countries  by  his  swift,  unerring 
route, 

And  lingering,  flying,  claim  each  longed-for 
place. 

Venice  is  mine,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 

restrains 
Our  steps  as  sunset  fades;  proud  Rome 

unveils 

Her  treasures,  or  we  float  adown  the  Nile, 
And  of  a  dearer  journey  dream  the  while, 
Where  sang  the  Master — and  the  nightin 
gales 
Sing  yet  his  threnody  in  English  lanes! 


IN  THE  FOOTHILLS 

Oh,  the  joy,  the  deep  delight  of  living 
Through  strong  pulses  throbbing,   Nature 

giving 
Floods  of  sunshine,  golden 

Wine  of  life; 

Bends  the  sky,  a  hollow  turquoise,  over 
Red-brown  hills  that  beckon  me,  a  rover, 
On  to  breathe  mid-summer's 

Fragrance  rife. 

On   through   tangled   depths   of   chaparral 

breasting 
Up  steep  sunburnt  slopes,  rough  boulders 

cresting, 
Purple  heights  unconquered 

Fairer  rise; 

Sweet  the  hard-won  rest,  the  new  endeavor 
Raptured  senses  thrilling,  luring  ever 
On,  till  dark  each  shadowy 

Canyon  lies. 

Oh,  to  hold  Time  fast,  and  bid  him  measure 
Life  to  just  this  harmony  of  pleasure, 
Bidding  Summer  linger 

In  the  land; 

Let  the  world,  yon  high  horizon  barring, 
Fret  and  strive,  unheeded  here  its  warring, 
For  these  silent  summits 

Peace  command. 


In  clamorous  waves  the  city's  roar 
Beats  on  and  on  through  stifling  airs, 

With  deafening  din  re-echoing  o'er 
Her  stony,  clattering  thoroughfares; 

Yet,  inner  silence  broods  with  me — 
The  charmed  trance  of  Arcady. 

Shut  in  by  towering  walls,  the  sky 
A  pallid  glimpse,  God's  sunlight  dear 

Past  dusty  casements  flickering  by, 

With  Toil  and  Gain  for  warders,  here 

A  yearning  prisoner  held,  for  me 
Still  smile  the  fields  of  Arcady. 

Dull,  dull  and  cold  each  printed  page, 
Long-columned  figures  sway  and  reel, 

While  round  me  fellow-toilers  wage 
Life's  struggle,  chained  to  Fortune's 
wheel ; 

From  duty's  lash  a  truant,  free 
I  roam  with  fauns  in  Arcady. 

Ah,  Heart  of  Mine,  await  me  there, 
While  snows  of  orange-blossoms  fall, 

Till  at  your  lead  our  footsteps  fare 
And  follow  changeless  Summer's  call. 

Fulfilled  our  every  dream  shall  be 
In  yonder  longed-for  Arcady ! 


SISTER  DOLORES 

Pure,  placid  face  with  linen  aureole  bound 

In  saintly  guise, 

Still  on  your  rosary  bent  in  thought  pro 
found, 

Those  prayerful  eyes. 
Dolores,  tell  me  are  your  cloistered  walls 

From  sin  secure? 

Where  neither  storm  nor  stress  nor  sorrow 
faUs 

Does  peace  endure? 

Pale  lily,  nurtured  in  dim  convent  close 

(Love's  sun  denied 
Whose  ardent  kisses  woo  the  blushing  rose 

To  crimson  pride.) 
What  dower  of  sweetness  all  ungathered  fills 

That  untouched  heart? 
What  inner  song  of  calm  delight  so  thrills 

Your  life  apart? 

In  constant  prayer,  in  faithful  toiling  spent, 

Your  days  serene; 
Reproved,  we  idlers  watch  such  calm  content 

With  reverent  mien. 
Unmarred  by  lines  of  vain  desire,  of  care, 

Your  rose-leaf  cheek, 
An  aura  sweet  of  blessed  goodness  there, 

Devoutly  meek. 

And  stirs  no  grief,  no  fair  remembrance  calls 

Prom  yesterdays 
When  on  your  crucifix  the  moonlight  falls ; 

Or  garden  ways 
Are  blue  with  violets  in  the  wistful  spring, 

Wakes  no  regret 
For  vanished  face,  for  raptures  lost,  to  bring 

Tears  bitter  yet? 


Sister  Dolores 

Love's  anguished  night,  Love's  golden  days 
unguessed, 

Hope's  restless  tides 
And  ebb  of  fear  knows  not  your  gentle  breast 

Where  heaven  abides; 
That  bitter-sweet,  to  me  Life's  all,  Life's 
best, 

Nor  for  release 
From  blissful  pain,  Dolores,  could  I  rest 

In  cloistered  peace. 

LAKE  TAHOE 

Gem  of  the  high  Sierra,  lucent,  clear, 
Your  emerald  shallows  mirror  emerald 

shore 
And   each   long  ripple   paints  that  vergo 

once  more, 

Till  trembling,  shifting,  these  illusions  near 

Fairer  than  crags  and  pines  remote  appear. 

What  mysteries  strange  your  depths  of 

sapphire  store, 
What  whispered  legends,  myths  of  Indian 

lore, 

Told  on  enchanted  waters  drifting  here 
To  watch  the  opaline  fires  of  sunset  pale. 
Where   snow-flecked   Tallac  towers,   the 

far  peaks  glow 
With   misty   radiance   lingering,    fading 

slow. 
Too    soon    dim    dusk    and    darkening    sky 

prevail, 

On  Tahoe  's  quiet  breast  the  last  gleams  fail, 
And  mellow  Hesper  in  the  west  burns  low. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  IN  THE  PHILIPPINES 

On  the  firing  line  in  Luzon  when  the  sickly 

moon  hung  low 
In  a  lurid  haze  of  copper,  and  the  flooded 

rice-fields  show 
Glitter  near  of  drowning  moonbeams,  glitter 

far  where  rifles  peep — 
It  was  Scott,  clean  dazed  with  fever,  fell  to 

crooning  (half  asleep)  : 
"O,  the  Kansas  prairies  stretching,  white 

with  moonlight  on  the  snow, 
O,  the  Kansas  farmhouse  windows  flaring 

out  their  rosy  glow 
From    the    fire-place    where    they    gather, 

neighbors  from  the  farms  about, 
For  it's  New  Year's  Eve  in  Kansas,  and 

they  watch  the  Old  Year  out." 

On  the  firing  line  in  Luzon  many  a  homesick 

heart  beat  fast 
With   a   bitter,   hopeless   longing   as   that 

hoarse  voice  sobbed  at  last; 
(Like  a  hailstorm  fell  the  bullets;  never 

cared  he  how  they  sped) 
Babbling  louder,  "Boys,  it's  'watch  night,' 

don't  you  see  the  tables  spread? 
'Watch  night'  back  in   Kansas — feasting, 

plenty — God!  we're  starving  here! 
'Watch  night'  and  beside  you  some  one, 

blushing  as  you  whisper,  'Dear, 
You're  the  last  I'll  see  this  Old  Year,  so  my 

New  Year's  bride  you'll  be,' 
And  her   kiss   while   twelve   was   striking 

brought  a  glad  New  Year  to  me." 


New  Year's  Eve  in  the  Philippines 

On  the  firing  line  in  Luzon,  "Down!"  they 
shouted;  "Hold  him,  men!" 

But  he  staggered  upward,  forward,  with 
that  choking  voice  again 

Sobbing,  calling,  "Mother,  Molly,  don't  you 
know  me,  wife  f    It 's  Will ! ' ' 

In  that  deadly  rain  of  bullets  falling  head 
long,  whispering  still, 

"Dear,  it's  'watch  night,'  and  together  we 
will  watch  the  Old  Year  go; 

Kiss  once  more  as  twelve  rings  gladly  in  the 
New  Year  from  the  snow; 

Bitter  cold  these  Kansas  prairies;  hold  me 
closer,  Molly  dear" — 

Scott  of  Kansas,  dead  in  Luzon,  smiling, 
welcomed  in  the  year. 


MERE  ATOMS,  LORD  ! 

"Worlds  for  another  day!"  the  felon  cried, 
And  heard  swift  hammers  on  his  scaffold 

ring. 
"The  dawn  again!"  a  girl  despairing 

sighed ; 
"Dear  God,  I  prayed  that  kindly  Death 

might  bring 
His  Lethean  draught."    Of  both  unheeding, 

soared 
The  splendid  sun,  by  millions  blest,  adored. 


MOTORING  IN  GOLDEN  GATE  PARK 

*Won  from  the  shifting  sand-dunes 

That  trade-winds  whirl  and  heap 
While  the  restless  ocean-surges 

Forever  landward  sweep, 
There  stretches  a  noble  pleasaunce — 

The  people's  fair  estate — 
In  the  city  of  Saint  Francis 

That  guards  the  Golden  Gate. 

Here  are  hill  and  vale  and  woodland 

With  dear  delights  at  call, 
And  the  glitter  and  liquid  plashing 

Of  lake  and  waterfall ; 
Trees  and  flowers  of  the  rarest — 

But  the  level  roads  that  roll 
Like  a  ribbon  bright  unfolding 

Bring  joy  to  the  motor-soul! 

For,  ah,  the  bliss  of  speeding 

With  one — the  dearest  and  best — 
Into  the  heart  of  the  sunset 

And  the  amber  glow  of  the  west; 
Of  the  musical,  rhythmical  humming 

Of  perfect  gear  and  gait 
As  the  reeling  miles  go  flying 

In  this  Park  of  the  Golden  Gate! 

We  have  distanced  every  trouble, 

Old  Care  forsakes  the  race ; 
In  this  mad,  sweet,  onward  rushing 

But  Life  and  Love  keep  pace. 
Till  the  sun  in  the  broad  Pacific 

Dips  low  his  shield  of  gold, 
And  a  myriad  blossoms  of  starlight 

On  our  homeward  way  unfold. 

*  Golden  Gate  Park  of  a  thousand  acres  was  re 
claimed  from  a  waste  of  sand-dunes. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  Kiss 

That  danger  may  lurk  in  a  kiss 

Scientific  professors  are  holding; 
They  seek  to  deprive  us  of  this 

Consolation  by  grimly  unfolding 
Tales  of  possible  microbes  in  wait, 

Of  bacilli  deadly  ensnaring 
Each  innocent  pair — soon  or  late — 

While  kisses  they  fondly  are  sharing. 

That  danger  may  lurk  in  a  kiss 

No  one  will  deny  it  completely 
Who  has  yielded  to  fetters  that  this 

Soft  touch  of  red  lips  rivets  neatly. 
There  is  fear,  too,  of  losing  the  next; 

For  who  does  not  ponder  with  sorrow 
On  the  kiss  indecision,  perplexed, 

Put  off  for  a  ne'er-arrived  morrow. 

And  danger  may  lurk  in  the  kiss 

A  stranger  inflicts  on  the  baby — 
An  elderly  relative's!  This 

Choice  salute  has  some  terrors,  it  maybe ; 
But  given  two  souls  held  as  one 

By  love's  immemorial  passion, 
And  there's  naught  half  so  sweet  'neath  the 
sun 

As  a  kiss  in  the  time-honored  fashion. 

Yes ;  danger  may  lurk  in  a  kiss  ; 

But  who  would  not  risk  it,  declaring 
That  exquisite  moment  of  bliss 

Worth  microbes  innumerable  daring? 
Oh!  fossils  antique,  why  dispel 

With  a  microscope  Love's  dream  Elysian, 
And  facts  so  detestable  tell 

Of  bacteriological  vision? 

ENVOY 
Prince,  danger  may  lurk  in  this  kiss 

You  are  begging  with  words  of  affection ; 
For  an  instant's  non-sterilized  bliss 

Would  you  risk  ac  endemic  infection? 


BREAD  AND  CHEESE  AND  KISSES 

I've  always  been  a  rolling  stone, 

Nor  gathered  any  moss, 
A  ready  hand,  a  ready  glass, 

For  all  I  came  across — 
But,  now,  for  love  of  you,  my  dear, 

No  longer  will  I  roam, 
I'll  settle  down,  a  married  man, 

And  have  a  cosy  home — 

Yes,  it's  home,  my  honey, 
With  a  pocket  full  of  money, 
Home  and  wife,  my  honey, 
When  my  ship  comes  in ! 

Somewhere  upon  Life's  ocean  wide, 

Sjhe's  on  her  homeward  run, 
That  gallant  ship  with  shining  sails. 

She's  lettered  just  A-l; 
Her  cargo  all  of  dollars  bright, 

The  steersman,  Hope,  will  bring 
Safe  into  harbor  soon,  my  dear — 

And  then  we'll  buy  the  ring; 

For  it's  home,  my  honey, 
With  a  pocket  full  of  money, 
Home  and  wife,  my  honey, 
When  that  ship  comes  in  I 


Bread  and  Cheese  and  Kisses 

I  wouldn't  ask  the  girl  I  love 

To  share  but  bread  and  cheese, 
A  crust  and  work  for  me,  my  dear, 

For  you  a  life  of  ease ; 
And  the  wolf  that  waits  without  the  door 

Drives  Love  in  fear  away — 
So  plight  your  faith  to  me,  my  dear 

And  wait  a  happier  day 

When  it's  home,  my  honey, 
And  a  pocket  full  of  money — 
Home  and  wife,  my  honey, 
When  that  ship  comes  in ! 

What  ?    You  say  that  ship  is  but  a  dream, 

And  old  and  gray  we  'd  be, 
While  bread  and  cheese — and  kisses,  too, 

Is  feast  enough  ?    Why,  see, 
If  that's  your  will,  my  bonny  lass, 

Then  hand  in  hand  we'll  fare — 
Though  light  our  purse,  our  lighter  hearts 

Shall  sweet  and  bitter  share ; 

So  it's  home,  my  honey, 
And  never  mind  the  money ; 
Home  and  wife,  my  honey, 
Ere — that  ship  comes  in! 


FIVE  O'CLOCK  TEA 
(From  Joe's  Point  of  View) 

A  pink  and  white  pastel 
In  her  picturesque,  fluffy  frock, 
My  lady  serves  us  Russian  tea 
In  marvelous  Worcester  cups,  while  we 
Her  guests,  admiring,  smile  and  pass 
The  nothings  that  serve  for  wit — alas — 
At  five  o'clock. 

The  cold  dusk  deepens  without, 

But  here  is  the  very  heart 

Of  June  in   this   perfumed   and   rose-red 

glow, 
And  the  warmth  of  her  slow  sweet  smile, 

and  though 
I  have  but  a  glance,   as  the  gay  throng 

sways, 

I  count  this  one  of  Life's  perfect  days 
Thus  set  apart. 

Half  the  men  of  our  set 
Rave  of  her  beauty  and  grace; 
I'm  but  her  humblest  slave,  I  know, 
Yet  even  a  queen  may  stoop — and  so 
In  the  wildest,  maddest  of  dreams  divine 
I  dare  to  picture  as  some  day  mine, 
Her  proud,  proud  face. 

She  and  I  then,  alone — 
What  rapturous  bliss  were  it  true ! 
The  world  shut  out  as  the  daylight  dies 
While  tender  the  look  in  her  dreamy  eyes, 
With  white  hands  hovering  deftly  o'er 
A  tete-a-tete  service,  she  smiles — to  pour 
Tea  just  for  two! 


A  MAY  CAROL 

Such  a  gay  world  is  the  May  world 

In  this  perfect  sunny  weather! 
There  are   snowy   daisies   smiling   on   the 

lawn; 
Saintly  white  rose  nods  to  red  rose, 

Golden  poppies  laugh  together, 
And  the  meadow  larks  call  gladly  at  the 
dawn. 

'Tis  an  old  world  and  a  cold  world, 

But  the  sun's  an  ardent  lover, 
And  his  glowing  kisses  thrill  her  bosom 

fair, 
Till  the  May  earth  is  a  new  earth 

And  the  grass  and  blossoms  cover 
All  the  hillsides  and  the   gardens   every 
where. 

Now  the  cold  rains  and  the  frost-blight 
At  the  touch  of  spring  have  vanished, 

And  our  pulses  throb  at  kisses  of  the  May, 

So  from  sad  hearts  like  the  young  hearts, 
Should  the  clouds  of  grief  be  banished, 

And  a  flood  of  joyous  sunlight  fill  the  day. 

With  the  May  days,  dusty  town  ways 

Are  our  restless  spirits  spurning, 
For  the  dreamy  charm  of  Nature  longing 

so; 
For  the  woodpaths  and  the  brookpaths 

And  the  sound  of  waters  yearning, 
Where  our  Mother  Earth  is  calling,  calling 
low. 


A  PICTURE  OF  '49 

When  the  water  came  up  to  Montgomery 

street 

In  the  days  of  '49'ers, 
This  canvas  town  was  a  swarming  hive 
Of  the  bravest — and  quickest — men  alive, 
"Who  thronged  saloons  and  filled  each 

"dive" 
With  cheerful  clink  of  "shiners." 

When  the  water  came  up  to  Montgomery 

street; 

Its  blue  waves  softly  flowing 
Where  the  Mills  and  Mutual  brick  walls 

rest, 
Thick  chaparral  crowded  o'er  Nob  Hill's 

crest, 

And  trade  winds  over  the  sand  dunes  west 
Of  Powell  street  were  blowing. 

When  the  water  came  up  to  Montgomery 

street — 

Those  were  the  days  to  live  in! 
When  Gold  was  king  and  woman  queen; 
The  pistol  law — or  a  long  knife  keen — 
While   to   chance — or  pleasure — the  hours 

between 
The  dusk  and  dawn  were  given. 

When  the  water  came  up  to  Montgomery 
street, 

And  Pioneer  veins  throbbed  madly 
In  the  fierce  "gold  fever's"  wildest  spells. 
The  chimes  of  the  Mission  Dolores  bells — 
Faint  o'er  the  din  of  the  gambling  "hells" 

Touched  hearts  that  answered  sadly. 


A  Picture  of  '49 

When  the  water  came  up  to  Montgomery 
street — 

Oh,  Argonauts,  strong  yet  tender! 
Free-lances  of  Fortune,  her  golden  prize 
Won  by  the  few,  from  the  many  flies; 
And  struggling  hosts  perished  with  dying 
eyes 

Upraised  to  its  fatal  splendor. 

SONG 
Sweetheart  of  mine,  what  art  of  thine 

Didst  use  to  gently  wind  me 
Around  thy  dainty  finger,  till 
I'm  but  the  creature  of  thy  will? 
Slave  of  thy  ring,  I  wonder  still 

Such  slender  chains  can  bind  me. 

Is  it  thy  hair,  oh  sweetheart  fair, 
In  gold  lengths  softly  shining  ? 

Or  no,  within  those  deep  brown  eyes 

Perchance  the  subtle  secret  lies ; 

One  long,  long  look  may  yet  surprise 
This  charm  that  mocks  divining. 

Red  lips  of  thine,  oh  sweetheart  mine, 

The  mystery  might  discover. 
Entrancing  curves  and  dimples,  pray 
Will  you  this  cunning  witch  betray? 
"No  magic  here,"  thy  sweet  lips  say, 

"I  only  love  my  lover." 


THE  SONGS  OF  A  PEOPLE 

"Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  people — and 
I  care  not  who  makes  the  laws." 

Ah,  to  make  the  songs  of  a  people ; 

Grand  songs  that  thrilling  deep 
With  a  living  fire  of  swift  desire 

A  nation's  heart-strings  sweep; 
Dear  songs  of  home  and  fireside — 

Or  battle-chants  that  ring 
With  the  clash  of  steel,  as  foemen  wheel, 

And  a  mighty  chorus  sing ! 

Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  people 

Folk-songs,  that  echoing  down 
From  sire  to  son  long  years,  have  won 

The  country's  wide  renown; 
The  cradle-songs  of  a  people, 

Their  solemn  hymns  of  praise — 
Those  words  that  mould,  with  a  subtle  hold, 

Men's  souls  for  upward  ways. 
Yes,  to  make  the  songs  of  a  people ; 

The  ones  that  mothers  croon 
To  the  dreaming  ears  of  the  babe,  who  hears 

Through  life  that  haunting  tune ; 
Sweet  calls  of  the  happy  children 

In  rhyming  melody, 
Their  fairy-plays,  or  the  lilting  lays 

They  carol,  gay  and  free. 


The  Song  of  a  People 

Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  people 

That  the  hardy  toilers  choose, 
Their  chanty-strains,  as  the  anchor-chains 

Heave  up  from  the  harbor-ooze ; 
The  runes  of  the  northern  sailors, 

Or  fisher-chants  that  fail 
Through  the  closing  night,  as  the  ghostly 
white 

Of  fog  dims  voice  and  sail. 

Thus  to  make  the  songs  of  a  people, 
What  joy  those  strains  to  write! 

The  curb  and  chain  of  Law,  in  vain 
Would  shackle  might  and  right ; 

But  deep  in  the  hearts  of  a  people 

The  power  of  Song  endures; 
No  laws  can  teach,  or  as  surely  reach 

The  heights  that  Song  secures. 

UNDER  THE  SEARCH  LIGHT 

With  the  human  tide,  one  drifts 

Through  the  shadowy  pathways'  gloom, 
When  out  of  the  sea  of  faces,  lifts 
As  the  splendid  shaft  of  silver  shifts, 
One  like  a  rose  in  bloom. 

'Tis  the  tender  face  of  my  love, 
Lost  love  who  was  never  mine ; 

Only  her  wistful  look  I  meet — 

Her  glance  that  has  held  me  in  bondage  sweet 
While  the  slow-paced  years  decline. 

Only  her  face — and  it  fades 

As  the  strong  white  glare  departs. 
Darkness  and  silence  blur  the  scene, 
And  the  ocean  of  Life  rolls  on  between 
That  passing  touch  of  our  hearts. 


THE  FIEST  RAIN 

When,  hesitant,  the  rain's  light  footfalls 

greet 
These  arid  hills,  long  waiting,  brown  and 

bare, 
What  faintly  answering  fragrance  fills 

the  air? 
A  happy  sigh  from  prisoned  wildflowers 

sweet 
Gliding  like  ghosts  each  from  its  deep 

retreat 

At  near  release  of  weary  drought's 
despair. 

Swift  fancy  bids  the  long  procession  fare 

Till  hills  and  intervales  gay  ranks  repeat 

With  gold  of  buttercups,  blue  iris,  dear 

And  sweetest  violets;  here  the  orange  flare 

Of  joyous  poppies,  lupins  straggling  there. 

Bright   perfumed    cohorts,    viewless   yet 

how  clear ! 

Phantoms  of  summer,  wraiths  of  lost  delight 
The  first  rain  summons  into  airy  flight. 


PANSIES 

A  little  knot  of  pansies — 
Bronze  and  purple  and  gold — 
Rise  and  fall  in  a  dainty  nest 
Of  creamy  lace  on  my  lady's  breast, 
As  we  sway  to  the  cadences  soft  and  low 
Of  dreamy  waltzes,  to  and  fro, 
This  little  knot  of  pansies 
Their  dewy  fragrance  hold. 


Pansies 

"Ah,  happy  knot  of  pancies," 

I  whisper  with  a  sigh ; 
"Yet  the  tiny  faces  careless  wear 
Their  priceless  honors,  nestling  there 
In  the  heaven  of  flowers,  with  perfume  faint 
And  cool  as  in  some  garden  quaint, 

These  happy  little  pansies 
In  envied  sweetness  lie." 

"Nay,  envy  not  my  pansies" — 

And  her  voice  is  silver-clear — 
"Worn  for  an  hour,  they  fade  and  die, 
Their  velvet  petals  withered  lie 
Crushed  and  broken  and  cast  aside, 
Vain  their  purple  and  golden  pride ; 
Poor  little  knot  of  pansies 
They  buy  such  honors  dear." 

"Yet,  blest  for  ever  these  pansies 
If  they  linger  but  an  hour ; 
Nestled  in  amber  silk  and  lace, 
Clasped  by  glimmer  of  pearls  in  place, 
Sweet  were  death  in  such  royal  state — 
But  the  heaven  sweet  of  thy  bosom,  Fate 
Gives  only  to  these  pansies, 
Unconscious,  thankless  flowers." 

Withered  to-day  the  pansies, 

Tarnished  their  bronze  and  gold ; 
Yet  sweetest  memories  grace  bestow, 
With  pristine  beauty  their  pale  leaves  glow. 
We    smile    and    guard    them   with   tender 

thought 
Of  the  spell  their  fairy  faces  wrought. 

This  little  knot  of  pansies 
Our  joined  lives  precious  hold. 


RONDEAU 

Thy  dearest  friend  I   Take  not  the  one  whose 

praise 

And  fulsome  flattery  regale  thine  ear, 
That  ready  echo,  sweet  but  insincere, 
Voicing  a  bland  approval  of  thy  ways; 
Nor  him  who  holds  a  mirror  that  portrays — 
And  nothing  more — thine  imperfections 
clear. 

For  thy  soul's  mate  whom  long  years  but 

endear, 

Whose    heart   to    thine    respondeth   nor 
betrays 

(For  dearest  friend) 
Choose  one  who,   wisely  kind,   to   heights 

above 
Mere  Self,  directs  thy  course  with  firm 

intent, 
Who    guards  thy   life   with   tender   touch 

of  love 
From  sin's  foul  blight.  .  .  Smiling  at  thy 

content 

Sad  in  thy  grief — Then  truly  heaven-sent, 
Thy  dearest  friend ! 


A  DBEAM  OF  POPPIES 

Brown  hills  long  parched,  long  lifting  to  the 

blue 

Of  summer's  brilliant  sky  but  russet  hue 
Of  sere  grass  shivering  in  the  trade-wind's 

sweep, 
Soon,   with   light   footfalls,    from   their 

tranced  sleep 

The  first  rains  bid  your  poppies  rise  anew; 

And  trills  the  larg  exultant  summons,  too. 

How  swift  at  Fancy's  beck  those  gay 

crowds  leap 
To  glowing  life!    The  eager  green  leaves 

creep 
For  welcome  first;  then  hooded  buds,  pale 

gold, 

Each  tender  shower  and  sun-kiss  help  unfold 
Till  smiling  hosts  crowd  all  the  fields,  and 

till 

A  yellow  sea  of  poppies  breasts  each  hill 
And  breaks  in  joyous  floods,  as  children  hold 
Glad  hands  the  lavish  cups  as  gladly  fill. 


MOST  OF  ALL 

Dear  to  the  hearts  of  Provence  girls 
In  France,  the  beautiful,  is  this  rhyme : 
"He  loves  me — a  little — not  at  all — 
A  great  deal,"  then  "the  most  of  all." 
A  flower  charm  told  in  midsummer  time, 
When  this  sunny  land  is  fair  to  behold 
With  Marguerite  daisies,  white  and  gold. 

This  is  one  picture  summer  shows: 
Fanchon,  the  flower-girl,  standing  where 
The  climbing  roses,  creamy  Lamarque, 
Brush  with  their  petals  her  tresses  dark, 
Gathering  the  daisies,  white  and  fair ; 
Half  in  a  dream,  o'er  her  winsome  face 
Comes  a  sudden  sweetness,  a  tender  grace. 

Over  the  daisies  her  bright  face  droops, 
Softly  she  whispers  the  musical  rhyme ; 
"He  loves  me  a  little,"  pausing  to  blush, 
"A  great  deal,"  ah,  what  a  rosy  flush ! 
"A  little,  a  great  deal;"  not  this  time; 
In  a  silvery  shower  the  petals  fall ; 
"A  little — a  great  deal — most  of  all." 

"Most  of  all,"  the  sweet  lips  say, 
Dreamy  and  tender  grow  her  eyes, 
While  leaf  by  leaf  the  charm  is  told, 
O'er  petals  of  silver  and  hearts  of  gold. 
Now  on  her  face  a  shadow  lies ; 
"Not  at  all;"  with  a  charming  frown 
The  innocent  daisies  flutter  down. 


Most  of  All 

Again  she  murmurs  the  legend  old, 

Half  vexed,  half  laughing,  and  wholly  sweet ; 

The  flying  petals,  like  rosy  snow, 

Drift  from  her  fingers  and  falling  low, 

Flutter  around  her  dainty  feet. 

"Most  of  all"  is  the  last  she  tries — 

"Yes,  most  of  all,"  a  voice  replies. 

Over  her  shoulder  a  saucy  face, 
A  daring  arm  round  her  bodice  red — 
Ah,  Fanchon's  fortune  is  surely  told; 
No  need  of  the  daisies,  white  and  gold, 
To  tell  the  words  her  lover  has  said, 
Kissing  her  lips — 'tis  "under  the  rose" — 
He  loves  her  the  most  of  all,  she  knows. 


MANUEL'S  SERENADE 

List,  list  to  the  mandolin,  mi  muy  querida, 

Yet,  soft  as  its  cadences  fall, 
A  melody  sweeter  my  lips  keep  repeating, 
Jovita,  mi  alma,  each  heart-throb  is  beating, 

For  Love  holds  my  spirit  in  thrall. 

Ah,  lean  from  thy  lattice,  Jovita,  querida, 

Let  fall  the  red  rose  from  thy  hair ; 
With  kisses  I'll  cherish  it  fondly,  divining 
Thy  sweet  lips  have  pressed  it  to  comfort  me, 

pining 
Alone  in  the  midnight's  despair. 

Thrice    lonely    thy    garden,    for    haunted, 

querida, 

By  visions  of  vanished  delight ; 
The  roses'  rich  perfume  recalls  thy  dark 

tresses, 
Yon  jasmine  bower  whispers  of  smiles  and 

caresses, 
Where  falls  my  lone  shadow  to-night 

Now    slumber    and    dream    of    thy    lover, 

querida, 

Of  Manuel  who  watches  these  hours. 
Love  wakes  with  the  morrow,  ah,  sleep  till 

his  greeting 
Arouses  thee,  gladly,  while  swift  speeds  our 

meeting, 
For  Love  and  the  morrow  are  ours. 


SUB  ROSA 

HE 

Under  the  rose  I  kissed  her,  though 
'Twas  just  her  small  white  hand,  I  know; 

But  she  must  surely  guess  I  love  her ! 

A  secret  I  would  fain  discover 
Yet  dread  her  frown,  and  lingering  so 
In  present  bliss,  the  heaven  forego 
That  I  might  reach — and  she  bestow, 

Were  I  her  own  acknowledged  lover 

Under  the  rose. 

But  risk  the  depths  of  utter  woe 
And  lose  those  perfect  lips  ?    Ah,  no ; 

'Tis  happiness  just  now  to  hover 

Upon  the  brink,  her  waiting  lover, 
And  dream  of  kisses  sweet,  although 

Under  the  rose ! 
SHE 

Under  the  rose  he  kissed  me ! — Oh 
Only  my  hand !    He  might,  you  know, 

Have  kissed  my  cheek,  dear,  timid  lover! 

I  held  my  fan  quite  high  to  cover, 
My  blushes  should  he  dare  to.    Though 
His  welcome  footsteps  come^and  go— 
He  does  not  say  he  loves  me,  so 

I  can't  his  dearest  wish  discover 

Under  the  rose ! 
Yet  all  his  tender  glances  show 
His  heart  is  mine — and  I — I  know 

While  o'er  my  hand  his  kisses  hover, 

If  he  should  seek  my  lips,  sweet  lover, 
I  could  but  faintly  whisper  "No," 

Under  the  rose! 


YESTERDAY'S  ROSE 

Here's  the  rose  you  gave  me,  dear, 

Gave  but  yesterday, 
Crimson  petals  crushed  apart 
From  its  faintly  perfumed  heart, 
Withered  now — ah,  beauty  goes, 
Heavy  headed,  fading  rose, 

Sweet  but  yesterday. 

When  this  rose  you  gave  me,  dear, 

Only  yesterday, 

Soft  you  murmured,  with  a  kiss, 
"Rose  to  rose,  my  sweetheart;  this 
Perfect  blossom  to  my  fair, 
Sweetest  flower  of  flowers  rare." — 

Happy  yesterday! 
Ah,  poor  rose  you  gave  me,  dear, 

Though  but  yesterday 
Her  lost  loveliness  and  grace 
Must  to  later  bloom  give  place ; 
Still  so  frail,  today's  will  die, 
Life  to  all,  a  kiss — a  sigh ; 

Rose  of  yesterday! 

Will  Love's  rose  you  gave  me,  dear 

Gave  but  yesterday, 
Outlive  chance  and  change  and  woe, 
All  that  Life  may  bring  us,  though 
Rose  of  lips  and  cheek  depart, 
Still  shall  heart  respond  to  heart 

Just  as  yesterday? 


THE  CALIFORNIA  MEADOW  LARK 

What  joy,  dear  lark,  wells  in  your  liquid 

trill, 
What  hopes  that  silver  cadence   scarce 

conceals 

From  us,  and  to  your  dreaming  mate  re 
veals  ! 
Harsh  was  your  querulous  note  or  mute, 

until 
The  summer  drought  fled  at  the  south  wind's 

will; 

Then  in  the  pauses  of  the  rain  appeals 
Your  warble  clear,  while  swift  the  new 

grass  steals 
On  field  and  upland  to  each  waiting  hill. 

Now,  though  such  rapture  thrills  your  song, 

though  sweet 

Those  haunting  falls  of  melody  we  hear 
In  your  low,  restless  flight  (still  hovering 

near 
That  hidden  nest  your  love,  and  Spring,  to 

greet), 
Yet,  lark,  within  your  strain  some  nameless, 

fleet 
And  subtle  grief  compels  a  sudden  tear ! 


UNATTAINED 

Some  day  the  song  that  rings  unsung 
In  haunting  measures  through  my  dreams, 
With  cadence  sweet  eluding  still 
Or  voice  or  pen,  may  linger  till 
I  catch  its  harmony  that  seems 
Now  fluted  by  an  angel's  tongue, 
Ah,  lyric  grand  that  hearts  may  sway 

Some  day,  some  day. 

Some  day  the  scenes  that  swiftly  change 

On  Fancy's  magic  canvas  wide, 
Isles  of  the  Blest,  or  castles  wrought 
In  dreams,  with  gorgeous  colors  fraught, 

Some  hand  now  baffled  and  denied 

May  grasp  these  airy  visions'  range; 

While  wondering  crowds  their  plaudits  say 

Some  day,  some  day. 

Some  day  our  ships  now  freighted  deep 
With  hopes,   with  wealth   from  unknown 

shores 

May  swift  or  slow,  their  voyage  past, 
Find  harbor  in  our  hearts  at  last ; 
And  sweet  fruition,  untold  stores 
Of  longed  for  treasures  we  shall  reap, 
Fly,  shining  sails  on  homeward  way 

Some  day,  some  day. 

Some  day  that  song  unwritten  yet, 

The  view  sublime  that  mocks  all  skill. 
The  ship  delaying,  wish  repressed, 
Sweet  dreams  we  cherish,  half  confessed, 

Some  happy  day  may  garner  still. 

Along  Hope's  golden  ways  we  set 

Our  eager  feet,  and  longing  pray 

"Some  day,  some  day." 


LOVE'S  SHADOW 

In  every  joy  deep  dwells  the  thought  of 

thee; 
Thus  daily  pleasures  mount  to  heights  of 

bliss. 

The  tints  of  sky,  the  violet's  breath,  the  kiss 
Of  southern  sun — delights  divine  to  me 
These  common  gifts  when  shared  thus  con 
stantly. 

So,  too,  the  solitude  of  pain  I  miss, 
Its  keenest  sting,  dear  Heart,  all  lost  in  this 
Warm,  tender  clasp  of  thy  quick  sympathy. 
And  Grief,  avert  thy  tearful  eyes,  for  know 
I  fear  thee  not  when  falls  the  whisper  low 
"I  love  you,  dear."  Dark  Grief  and  cruel 

pain 
Those  words  assuage. — But  thou,   stern 

Death!     I  pray 
With  trembling  voice  and  hushed  heart  day 

by  day 
Thou  might 'st,  in  this  vast  world,  forget 

us  twain! 


OMNIA  VINCIT  AMOR 

To  love  and  understand,  dear  Heart! 

What  richer  dole 
Could  Fate,  with  lavish  hand  impart 

To  fainting  soul, 
While  to  the  vast  unknown,  regret 

Linked  with  despair 
Scourge  us  adown  life's  pathway,  set 

With  thorn  and  snare? 

To  love!    At  many  a  shrine  there  burns 

That  rosy  flame 
Before  an  idol  who  returns 

Love  but  in  name 
To  slaves  who  waste  in  worship  blind 

Rich  frankincense, 
In  constant  sacrificing  find 

Their  recompense. 

For  these  no  mutual  thrall;  sweet  spell 

With  subtle  power 
To  banish  fear,  and  swift  dispel 

The  darkest  hour, 
To  reach  a  hand  whose  pulses  beat 

With  answering  thrill, 
And  love-light  wake  in  eyes  that  meet 

Responsive  still. 

Fortune  may  pipe  her  gayest  air, 

Fame  smile,  and  power; 
If  Love  refuse  his  presence  fair, 

Unblest  that  hour. 
Crowned  with  success,  with  honor,  yet 

The  heart  alone, 
Denied  its  kindred  soul,  regret 

Claims  for  her  own. 


To  love  and  understand — though  roll 

Wide  seas  between, 
Love  spans  the  chasm,  and  soul  to  soul 

Crosses  unseen. 
From  heart  to  heart  leaps  swiftest  thought 

Untrammeled,  free, 
Till  distance  shrinks,  and  space  is  naught 

For  sympathy. 


TO-MORROW 

A  rainbow  art  thou,  fair  To-morrow,  still 
Luring  us  onward  with  that  fabled  gold 

Where  ends  thy  far  arch.    Blithe  we  follow 

—till 
Death  doth  our  steps  withhold! 

Eager  to  garner  that  illusive  store, 
Blindly  we  hasten  toward  the  shining  way, 

Unheeding  half  the  blossoms  crushed  before, 
Thy  fields  we  leave,  To-day. 


AT  THE  MISSION  DOLORES 

A  quaint  old  church,  whose  sweet  Castilian 

name 

A  century's  use  has  left  still  sadly  sweet, 
Set  in  an  odorous  sea  of  tangled  bloom 
Whose  billows,  seldom  stirred  by  wan 
dering  feet, 
Sweep  to  the  steadfast  hills,  that  reverent 

stand 
Apart  a  little,  from  this  silent  land. 

For  here  has  Death  so  long  hushed  trem 
bling  Life 

With  icy  finger,  that  in  awe  profound 
The  very  world  of  Nature  listens.    Here 
No  quick,  glad  trill  of  bird,  nor  drowsy 

sound 

Of  velvet  bee;  in  languid  tranced  repose 
A  butterfly  hangs  poised  above  a  rose. 

The  distant  city's  ceaseless  roar  comes  faint 

Like  murmurs  of  a  shell  to  listening  ear ; 

The  golden  sunlight  sleeps  on  ruined  tombs ; 

The  dust  beneath  has  blossomed  year  by 

year 
Into   white   roses,   till   their   lithe   lengths 

clasp 
A  wilderness  of  beauty  in  their  grasp. 

Forgotten  are  the  dead  who  slumber  here, 
Though  marble  carved  with  many  a  cur 
ious  fret, 

Gray  and  o'ergrown  with  moss,  bears  prom 
ise  vain 

Of  endless  grief.     We  read  with  vague 
regret 

And  turn,  with  sudden  tears,  where  long 
grass  waves 

O'er  row  on  row  of  short  and  nameless 
graves. 


At  the  Mission  Dolores 

Yet  idle  seems  all  grief;  to  wounded  hearts 
Like    sweetest   balm    come    thoughts    of 

peaceful  rest, 

Of  weary  toil  a  close, — of  dreamless  sleep 
With  tired  hands  folded  on  a  quiet  breast. 
Ah,  Love  Divine,  whose  tender  pity  sends 
Thine  angel  Death  and  such  poor  marred 
lives  ends! 

And  yet  to  die!     The  words,  this  perfect 

day 

When  lovely  April  smiles  with  dreamy 
charm, 

Bring  sudden  horror ;  through  the  sunny  air 
A  weird  chill  creeps;  the  heart  in  quick 
alarm 

Thrills  every  pulse  with  strange,  unreason 
ing  dread. 

The  place  seems  haunted  by  a   century's 
dead. 

And  though  the  golden  haze  of  noon  hangs 
warm 

And  glowing  in  the  thickets  all  aflame 
With  scarlet  blossoms,  yet  with  subtle  spell 

Death  and  decay  the  silent  city  claim, 
And  cast  the  awful  shadow  of  the  tomb 
Across  the  vivid  hues  and  rose's  bloom. 


A  MISSING  LINK  OF  THE  PAST 

Where,  where  is  the  time-honored  apron, 
The  apron  our  grandmothers  knew  ? 
It  was  ample  and  checked,  it  was  ribbon- 
bedecked, 

Nay,  'twas  every  known  fabric  or  hue. 
And  the  linen  ones  whiter  than  snowdrifts, 

So  glossy  with  patience  and  starch! 
Now  where  have  they  vanished,  or  has  Prog 
ress  banished 

Them  all  in  her  up-to-date  march? 

Say,  where  is  that  cute  little  apron 

With  pocket  adorned  with  a  bow? 
(Fascinations  untold  did  that  small  pocket 
hold 

For  the  fingers  and  eyes  of  each  beau.) 
Such  dainty,  such  furbelowed  aprons, 

Each  ruffled  or  ribboned  or  laced, 
With    strings    most    alluring,    embracing, 
securing 

It  safe  to  her  trim  slender  waist! 

Ah,  where  is  that  dearest  of  aprons 

So  snowy,  so  soft  and  so  cool, 
When  " mother's  lap"  cured  every  sorrow 

endured, 
Every    heartbreak     of    playground     or 

school? 
It  is  folded  in  lavender,  yellowed 

With  time  and  my  kisses  and  tears ; 
Her  sweet  face  recalling,  her  fond  caress 

falling 
It  summons  from  long,  lonely  years. 


A  Missing  Link  of  the  Past 

And  where  is  that  old-fashioned  apron, 

The  apron  no  new  woman  wears, 
Since  her  smart  tailor-gown  most  correctly 
would  frown 

On  such  feminine  frippery  and  snares  ? 
Then  what  earthly  occasion  to  wear  it 

Would  office  or  clubroom  allow  I 
No  small  hands  detaining,  no  home-cares 
constraining, 

No  apron-strings  tether  her  now ! 

Dame  Fashion,  restore  the  lost  aprons, 

Make  womanly  home-life  the  style ! 
Our  ball  gowns  neglect  and  our  tailors  reject, 

Reverse  Folly's  wheel  just  a  little 
And  bring  back  the  old  days  when  only 

The  home  seemed  the  dearest,  the  best, 
When  Cupid  completely  each  manly  heart 
neatly 

Bound  fast  with  those  apron-strings  blest ! 


LIFE'S  PROMISE 

The  promise  of  life !    How  it  leads  us,  allur 
ing 
With  rainbows  of  hope  through  the  fields 

of  to-day, 

And,  ever  that  fairy-gold  bent  on  securing, 
We  follow,  unheeding  the  rough,  thorny  way. 

Blest  promise  of  life,  for  to-day  may  be 

lonely 

Or  dreary,  or  sad  with  the  bitterest  woe, 
Yet  gardens  of  Arcady  smile  for  us,  only 
Beyond,  just  beyond  these  dark  shadows, 
we  know. 

Bright  promise  of  life,  to  each  spirit  fore 
telling 

Some  radiant  vision  of  power  or  success, 
Of  wealth,  with  its  bubble  of  gold  proudly 

swelling, 
Of  honors — or  Fame  with  immortal  caress. 

That  promise  of  life,  shall  we  win,  thus  ful 
filling 

Those  dreams  of  life's  morning,  its  noon 
day  hopes,  too? 
Who  knows?  Or  who  cares  in  the  happiness 

thrilling 

Prom  "castles  in   Spain"   ever  builded 
anew? 


Life's  Promise 

Then  here's  to  the  promise  of  life!    May  it 

brighten 
With   magical   sunshine   our   fast-flying 

years ! 
Some   good  angel's  gift  unto  mortals,   to 

lighten 

With  glimpses  of  Paradise,  earth  and  its 
tears. 


DOWN  o'  THE  THISTLE 

On  airy  wings,  these  sunny  August  days, 

Slow  sails  the  thistledown ; 
Through    quivering    seas    of    shimmering 

golden  haze 

The  fairy  shallops  float  in  aimless  ways 
And  touch  at  many  ports;  but  wanderers 

yet, 

For  distant  harbors  are  their  light  sails 

set, 

Though  all  too  frail  for  voyage  long,  at  last 
Each  bush  and  briar  holds  stranded  vessels 

fast, 
While  heaped  in  drafts  of  summer  fallen 

snow 

Whole   argosies   lie   wrecked   the   hedge 
below. 

But  when  the  tradewinds  sweep  with  desolate 

cry, 

Fast,  fast  the  thistledown, 
Sped  by  the  mad  blasts,  wildly  flutters  high 
Above  the  trees  all  landward  blown,  to  fly 
And  seek  in  sudden  turns  and  circlings 

wide 

A  shelter  by  the  fierce  gale  still  denied. 
While  from  their  moorings  torn,  the  captives 

rise 

In  snowy  swarms  like  startled  butterflies ; 
Far,  far  they  go,  and  fade  in  headlong 

flight 
Against  the  gray  sky,  from  my  eager  sight. 


Down  o  the  Thistle 

The  harvest  of  the  winds  thus  reaped  in 

haste — 

Poor  wandering  thistledown — 
Is  swiftly  sowed  in  fields  remote  and  waste 
That  fringe  the  dusty  roads,  whose  bounds 

are  traced 
By  ragged  ranks  of  crowded  stalks  that 

show 
But  empty  silvery  crowns,  from  friend 

or  foe 
Kept  safe  by  sturdy  spines.    The  vanished 

seeds 

The  early  rains  shall  find,  as  onward  speeds 
The  flying  year,  till  under  April  skies 
In  countless  hosts  the  purple  blossoms  rise. 


THE  GIRL  I  USED  TO  LOVE 

The  girl  I  used  to  love — ah,  still 

Her  brown  eyes  haunt  me  (chiefly 
When  smoking  in  the  twilight's  hush 

My  world  rolls  backward  briefly). 
Dear  eyes  that  held  within  their  depths 

A  look  I've  cherished  ever 
Though  fate,  or  folly,  swept  apart 

Our  hearts  and  paths  forever. 

The  girl  I  used  to  love — her  laugh 

(Sweet  lingering  echo)  stirring 
My  pulses  yet  as  when  we  stood 

Long  at  her  gate  conferring; 
I  did  not  tell — she  may  have  guessed — 

The  love  my  heart  o'erflowing, 
So  there  the  parting  of  our  ways 

Each  leagues  asunder  going. 

The  girl  I  used  to  love — so  long 

Ago  by  slow  years  counting. 
Or  was  it  yesterday  I  watched 

Her  swift  warm  blushes  mounting 
And  I,  poor  fool,  unversed  in  love 

Of  Cupid,  never  guessing 
'Twas  mine,  and  not  some  other's  name 

Her  maiden  heart  confessing ! 


The  Girl  I  Used  to  Love 

The  girl  I  used  to  love — ah,  me, 

I  love  her  still,  her  only, 
Though  here  disconsolate  T  sit, 

A  bachelor  gray  and  lonely. 
Perchance  what  " might  have  been,"  her 
heart 

At  twilight  keeps  presenting, 
Dear  laughing  girl  I  used  to  love, 

Lost  sweetheart  I'm  lamenting! 


JUNE 
(Among  the  Redwoods) 

Along  the  stream  our  idle  footsteps  lingered, 
The  happy  stream  that  hurried  all  the  day 
Bound  mossy  boulders,  or  o'er  golden  shal 
lows 

Where  cool  and  dark  the  trembling  shad 
ows  lay. 

Above  us  towered  the  redwoods,  straight  and 

stately, 
And  higher  yet  the  scarred  cliffs  boldly 

rose; 
Each  breath  we  drew  was  perfumed  with  the 

summer, 

For  us   and  Love,   the   silent,   charmed 
repose. 

"  Sweet,  sweet"  the  oriole  called,  and  by 

your  heartbeats 
Fast,  fast  against  my  arm,  I  knew  you 

heard ; 
" Sweet,  sweet"  again;  our  glances  met,  and 

softly 
Your  voice  in  passionate  cadence  mocked 

the  bird. 

I  felt  your  kiss,  your  tender  arms  enfolding, 
Ah,  vanished  June,  oh  stern,  relentless 

Fate- 
To  Life's  dull  round  we  turned  with  weary 

longing 

For  saddest  joys,  the  joys  we  knew  too 
late. 


June 

We  parted  then,  with  every  pulse  rebelling 
Against  the  ban  that  set  our  lives  apart; 
You  were  all  vows,  and  I  all  tears  and  sigh 
ing 

While    wildly    throbbed    each    hopeless, 
broken  heart. 

DECEMBER 

(At  Shreve's) 

To-day  we  met,  the  Christmas  throng  around 

us, 
You  chose  a  ring  to  please  your  "latest 

flame," 

And  I  the  diamonds  old  De  Witt  had  prom 
ised — 

Four  figures,  too — before  the  "day"  I'd 
name. 

You  wished  me  joy  in  accents  very  chilly 
And  praised  my  taste — ah,  Will,  that  was 

unkind — 
The  choice  was  mamma's  but — his  vows  are 

lasting 
Not  airy  nothings,  "summer  girls"  to  bind. 

Had  you  been  true,  no  diamonds,  Will,  had 

bought  me; 
But  no,  your  heart  the  clubs,  the  races 

hold. 

A  bitter  lesson  for  a  "bud"  you  taught  me, 
That  girls  are  toys  and  nothing  lasts  but 

gold. 

Yet  as  we  talked  and  o'er  the  city's  clamor 
The  low,  soft  murmur  of  that  stream  I 

heard, 
Those  golden  hours  when  Love  was  ours, 

still  haunt  me, 

The  oriole's  call,  your  voice  that  mocked 
the  bird. 


FLOTSAM 

O,  wounded  bird,  upon  the  waters  lying, 
Thy  ruffled  breast  laved  by  the  ripples 

long, 
Thy  wild  eye  dimmed,  poor  bird,  thou'rt 

slowly  dying, 

While  yet  the  mountain  echoes  breathe  thy 
song. 

Out  with  the  tide  on  helpless  wings  thou'rt 

drifting 

Par  from  thy  haunts,  out  toward  the  glow 
ing  west, 

Only  thy  glazing  eyes  to  heaven  lifting 
In  dumb,  pathetic  longing  for  thy  nest. 

Dear  sheltered  nest,  where  sits  thy  mate  low- 
calling, 

Or  stills  her  tender  notes  to  hear  thy  war 
ble  gay, 

While  over  thee  the  evening  damps  are  fall 
ing, 
And  ebbs  thy  life,  as  ebbs  the  tide  away. 

Slow  from  the  west  the  sunset  light  is  fading, 

Blends  in  the  sky  a  mingled  gold  and  blue  ; 

Dark  lies  the  bay  beneath  the  mountain's 

shading, 

Three  distant  sails  gleam  white  within  the 
view. 


Flotsam 

While  thou,  poor  bird,  with  shattered  pin 
ions  beating 

The  dark,  cold  waves  that  lap  thy  crim 
soned  breast, 

Never  again  thou 'It  sing  the  morning  greet 
ing; 

Long  ere  the  dawn  thy  weary  wings  shall 
rest 

Dim  in  the  distance  lie  the  sloping  ranges 
Of  hazy  hills  drawn  'gainst  the  misty  blue ; 

Grim  Tamalpais,  the  mighty  giant,  changes 
His  amber  mantle  to  a  leaden  hue. 

Darker  it  grows,  a  dying  flame  yet  burning 
Low  in  the  west  where  last  the  sunlight 

lay; 

With  saddened  hearts  we  leave  thee,  home 
ward  turning, 
And  as  we  go,  thy  short  life  slips  away. 

All  through  the  twilight  as  we're  idly  sailing 
The  ghostly  space  the  harbor  lights  illume, 

Ever  I  hear  thy  lonely  mate's  low  wailing 
That  cannot  reach  thee,  wrapped  in  end 
less  gloom. 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  BAINS 

Folded  are  your  wings,  O  winds  of  summer, 

Resting  after  long  and  tireless  flight 
O'er  the  curving,  heaving  breast  of  ocean, 
From  the  caverns  deep  of  western  night; 
Lulled  to  sleep,  O  tradewinds,  once  so 

strong, 
While   at  peace  from   days  of   clamorous 

raging 

Smiles  the  fair  land  you  have  scourged 
full  long. 

Hushed  the  dreary  foghorn's  sad  persis 
tence, 

Warning  ever  with  that  dolorous  note 
Of  the  snowy  legions,  swift  approaching, 
Wraiths  of  vapory  mist  that  lingering 

float 

Silently  the  treacherous  breakers  o'er; 
Blotting  too  with  gray  and  clinging  billows 
Circling  hills  and  lines  of  farther  shore. 

Mornings  now  with  wild,  sweet  fragrance 

blowing, 
While  the   larks  trill   eager  songs   and 

clear ; 

Just  the  faintest  green  on  southern  hill 
sides, 

Soft  the  quail  call  in  the  coverts  near. 
Weird,  chill  fog  and  gray  sky  vanished 

quite ; 
Quickening   sunlight  o'er  the   glad   world 

pouring, 
Just  to  breathe  is  rapture ;  life,  delight. 


After  the  First  Rains 

Changed   the   brilliant  blue   of   summer 

heavens, 

Arching  now  in  tenderest  azure  dim, 
Flecked  with  filmy  sails  of  cloudlets  drift 
ing 

To  the  far  horizon's  crystal  rim; 
While  we  question,  "Is  it  sea  or  sky?" 
Clouds  and  ships  on  that  vague  edge  of 

silver 
Meet  and  vanish,  fading  swiftly  by. 

Steeped  in  floods  of  soft  October  sunshine, 
With  late  tenderness  caressing  still, 

Sweep  of  bay  and  purple  ranges  distant 
Float  in  clearest,  farthest  vision,  till 
Comes  the  sunset,  flushing  near  and  far 

Quiet  sea  and  sky  where  hangs  the  crescent 
Of  the  faint  moon  and  one  mellow  star. 


CHRISTMAS  NEAR  AND  FAR 

The  Christmas  bells  ring  out — though  bleak 

December 

Far,  far  remote  appears 
To  hearts  that,  in  our  summer  land, 

remember 

Gay  feasts  of  other  years 
In  colder  climes,  beyond  the  palm,  yet 

breathing 

Sweet  fragrance  of  the  pine 
From  trackless  woodlands,  where  deep 

snows  were  wreathing 
Their  glittering  garlands  fine. 

Then  rang  the  bells  in  mellow  cadence 

chiming 

Through  keen  and  frosty  air — 
Rang  happiness,  our  answering  heartbeats 

timing 

The  Christmas  chorus  there. 
But  on  this  Western  shore  (an  alien  seem 
ing 

To  winter's  rigorous  hold), 
Perplexed  we  pause,  to  deem  December's 

dreaming 
As  flowers  of  June  unfold! 

Or  from  the  high  cloud  spaces  swift  de 
scending 

The  spirit  of  the  rain 
Hovers  above  the  waiting  hillsides,  bending 

Low  to  the  thirsty  plain. 
Her  vapory  mantle  on  the  south  wind  flow 
ing 

Athwart  the  mountain's  crest; 
Her  hands  outstretched  with  gracious  beni- 

son,  sowing 
Promise  of  harvest  blest. 


Christmas  Near  and  Far 

Soon  follow  emerald  leagues  of  young  grain 

springing, 

Bright  gold  on  sunny  slopes 
Our  poppies  scatter,  while  the  larks  dream, 

singing 

Of  love  and  wakened  hopes. 
Stirs  the  warm  earth  with  quickening 

growth,  and  tender 
The  blue  of  Christmas  skies; 
Radiant  with  floods  of  soft  yet  brilliant 

splendor 
The  low  sun  mounts — and  dies! 


NOT  FOR  OURSELVES  ALONE 

With  anxious  heart  and  feverish  brain 
His  body  racked  by  constant  strain 

Man  heaps  up  gold 
Or  land  or  jewels — though  the  whole 
Does  not  content  his  sordid  soul 

In  Greed's  strong  hold. 
' '  More,  more, ' '  he  cries.    ' '  A  million !    Ten ! 
I  shall  begin  to  live  but  then!" 

And  yet — and  yet 

Death  checks  his  course  with  icy  hand ; 
His  millions  but  a  grave  command, 

Nor  buy  regret. 

"A  wretched  being  Fortune's  slave; 

Not  wealth,  but  fame,  but  power,  I  crave ; 

The  power  to  sway 

Men's  hearts — until  my  honored  name 
The  archives  of  the  world  shall  claim." 

So  others  pray. 

Granted  the  wish.    Then  on  Time  crept. 
Their  little  circles  smiled — or  wept. 

And  yet — and  yet 

The  hearts  that  answered  to  their  call 
Respond  to  newer  masters.    All 

Save  Death  forget. 


Not  For  Ourselves  Alone 

"But  Love  eternal  lives."    So  sigh 
Or  sing  as  golden  hours  go  by, 

That  deathless  Two 
Who  deem  the  world  exists  to  share 
Their  bliss,  or  quake  at  their  despair, 

While  passion's  new. 
'Twere  vain  to  bid  them  understand 
That  Love  and  Grief  go  hand  in  hand. 

And  yet — and  yet 

A  month — a  year — 'tis  master,  slave; 
Dissension,  strife ;  Love  flown,  they  save 

Naught  but  regret 

Wealth,  Fame  or  Love,  how  brief  your  stay 
With  those  who  crave  your  magic  sway 

For  selfish  meed ; 
Ignoble  gains,  and  empty  name, 
And  love  that  is  but  passion's  flame 

Are  dross  indeed. 
To  live  for  other's  good!    Let  this 
Be  sum  and  source  of  mortal  bliss, 

And  yet — and  yet 
Abjuring  self,  thou'lt  win  a  place 
Of  brotherhood  with  all  the  race. 


Two  HEARTS 

Sad  heart,  true  heart,  brooding  o'er  thy 

sorrow, 
Dreaming  of  the  vanished  joys  of  days 

gone  before, 
Lost   in   utter    darkness,    despairing   of   a 

morrow. 
By   cruel  memory   haunted  —  a   torture 

never  o'er. 
Here  is  April  smiling,  and  meadow  larks  a- 

trilling, 
"  Spring  is  hope,  and  summer  brings  its 

certain,  sweet  fulfilling," 
While  all  the  garden  borders  with  violets 

are  blue. 

Sad   hearts,    dead   hearts   colder   still   are 

lying 

Pulseless  in  forgotten  graves,  the  wild- 
flowers  gay  above, 
Hearts  that  throbbed  as  madly,  hearts  that 

left  in  dying 
Sweeter  hopes  than  thine,  and  dreams  as 

bright  with  love. 
Thy  life  is  yet  before  thee ;  vain,  vain  such 

wild  repining; 
See,  through  a  fleeting  mist  of  rain,  the 

golden  sunlight  shining. 
The  past   returns  —  ah,   never,   but   April 

every  year. 


Two  Hearts 

Glad  heart,  proud  heart,  tearful  prayers 

breathing — 
Happy  tears  that  spring  from  joy  too 

deeply  sweet  and  keen — 
Round   thy   dear   one    ever   the   tenderest 

fancies  wreathing, 
Praying  "  Heaven  shield  my  darling  from 

the  sorrow  I  have  seen;" 
Loving,  ah,  so  blindly,   yet  with  divinest 

feeling, 

April's  promise  sweet  is  thine,  for  sum 
mer's  swift  revealing; 
Before  the  early  violets  wane,  thy  rose  of 

Love  shall  bloom. 

Glad  heart,  sad  heart,  each  so  wildly  beat 
ing, 
One    welling    o'er    with    rapture,    one 

crushed  by  dark  despair; 
Thou  thrilling  to  Life's  sadness,  thou  giving 

gayest  greeting, 
For  both  alike  the  tender  smile  of  dreamy 

April  fair. 
Life's  mysteries  hurry  by  us,  and  leave  us 

questioning,  yearning, 
But  this  year's  spring  shall  wane,  yet  wake 

with  golden  days  returning, 
And  countless  summers  dawn  and  die,  while 

Love  and  Life  go  on. 


FATHER  JUNIPERO  SERRA 

Out  of  the  past,  a  century's  slow  lapse  lend 
ing 

That  half -forgotten  age 
The  glowing  charm  of  Spanish  romance, 
blending 

With  history's  sterner  page; 
Out  of  the  past  one  name  in  song  or  story 

Illumes  that  noble  throng 
Of  Mission  Padres,  as  some  planet's  glory 

The  lesser  stars  among. 

Serra  renowned,  the  cross  of  Christ  uprear- 

ing 

Within  this  halcyon  clime, 
Whatever  our  creed  we  honor  him,  revering 

His  steadfast  soul  sublime ; 
True  heart  and  strong,  from  its  own  fullness 

reaching 

Love's  helping  hand  again; 
Lips    that    were    touched    with    fire    from 

heaven,  preaching 
Peace  and  good-will  to  men. 

Crumbling   to-day   are    Mission   arch   and 
tower, 

Sweet  Angelus  bells  no  more 
Through  the  long  corridors  at  twilight  hour 

Chime  silver  carillons  o'er; 
Fading  the  race  who  worshipped,  but  en 
during 

Their  shepherd's  name,  foretold 
In  boyhood,  by  stern  Destiny,  adjuring 

Him  to  this  heathen  fold. 


Father  Junipero  Serra 

Faring   from   sunny   Spain,   brave    Serra. 
preaching 

The  sacred  word  of  God. 
From  ancient  Vera  Cruz  far  inland  reaching 

Where  none  but  Indians  trod, 
A  score  of  seasons  labored,  ever  deeming 

His  infinite  task  undone 
And  countless  souls  forsaken — ever  dream 
ing 

Of  converts  to  be  won. 

Not  here  was   Serra 's  goal,  but  noontide 

resting 

His  pilgrimage  had  won ; 
The  morn's  long  combat  o'er,  yet  farther 

questing 

The  patient  heart  begun, 
Till  San  Diego's  natives  heard,  clear-ringing 

Each  consecrated  bell 

From  the  green  belfry  of  an  oak-tree  swing 
ing 
While  grand  Te  Deums  swell. 

Soon  rose  the  adobe  Missions,  white-walled, 

gleaming 

Under  red  roofs  and  quaint, 
Rose   the   Presidio,   war   and   peace   both 

deeming 

Diego  patron  saint ; 
Here  too,  this  band  devoted,  starving,  dying, 

As  the  first  martyrs  shed 
Their  blood,  the  seed  from  which  the  Church, 

defying 
Death  and  destruction,  spread. 


Father  Junipero  Serra 

Famed  other  Missions,  Luis,  Clara,  nearer 

Dolores,  and  Gabriel, 
Far  Capistrano,  while  most  loved  and  dearer, 

San  Carlos  of  Carmel ; 
Here  centered  Serra 's  heart,  returning  ever 

After  each  toilsome  quest : 
Here  conquered  Death — and  with  supreme 
endeavor 

He  whispered  "I  will  rest." 

Under  the  ruined  church  he  founded,  lying 

In  his  last  slumber  deep, 
Through  the  long  grass  the  sea-winds  blow, 

and  sighing 

His  only  requiem  keep, 
Yet  moldering  Missions,  even  his  grave 

may  perish 
Into  oblivion  wide, 
While  Serra 's  name  shall  reverent  memory 

cherish, 
True  martyr,  glorified  I 


Sure,  kissing  is  dangerous  indeed 
Entailing  no  end  of  confusion, 

For  it  often  to  marriage  may  lead, 
That  certian  and  swift  disillusion. 


PHANTASMA 

When,  hesitant,  the  rain's  light  footfalls 

greet 
These  arid  hills,  long  waiting,  brown  and 

bare, 
What  faintly-answering  fragrance  fills  the 

air? 
A  happy  sigh  from  prisoned  wild-flowers 

sweet, 

Gliding  like  ghosts  each  from  its  deep  re 
treat 

At  near  release  of  weary  drouth's  despair. 
Swift  fancy  bids  the  long  procession  fare 
Till  hills  and  intervales  gay  ranks  repeat 
With  gold  of  buttercups,  blue  iris,  dear 
And  sweetest  violets ;  here  the  orange  flare 
Of    joyous    poppies,    lupines    straggling 

there ; 
Bright  perfumed  cohorts,  viewless  yet  how 

clear ! 
Phantoms  of  summer,  wraiths  of  lost  de- 

light, 
The  first  rain  summons  into  airy  flight. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNI. 
LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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